The Catholic church stands on a height that overlooks the main, the lash of whose tides frequently blends with the chant of the priests. Within, the edifice is loaded by ornaments of indifferent taste; but, pausing beneath the portico, the soul delights to recall its purest of emotions—religion—while gazing at that superb spectacle, the sea, on which man never left his trace. He may plough the earth, and cut his way through mountains, or contract rivers into canals, for the transport of his merchandise; but if his fleets for a moment furrow the ocean, its waves as instantly efface this slight mark of servitude, and it again appears such as it was on the first day of its creation.[1]
Lord Nevil had decided to start for Rome on the morrow, when he heard, during the night, a terrific cry from the streets, and hastening from his hotel to learn the cause, beheld a conflagration which, beginning at the port, spread from house to house towards the top of the town. The flames were reflected afar off in the sea; the wind, increasing their violence, agitated their images on the waves, which mirrored in a thousand shapes the blood-red features of a lurid fire. The inhabitants, having no engine in good repair,[2] hurriedly bore forth what succor they could; above their shouts was heard a clank of chains, as the slaves from the galleys toiled to save the city which served them for a prison. The various people of the Levant, whom commerce had drawn to Ancona, betrayed their dread by the stupor of their looks. The merchants, at sight of their blazing stores, lost all presence of mind. Trembling for fortune as much as for life, the generality of men were scared from that zealous enthusiasm which suggests resources in emergency.
The shouts of sailors have ever something dreary in their sound; fear now rendered them still more appalling. The mariners of the Adriatic were clad in peculiar red and brown hoods, from which peeped their animated Italian faces, under every expression of dismay. The natives, lying on the earth, covered their heads with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them to do but to exclude the sight of their calamity. Reckless fury and blind submission reigned alternately, but no one evinced that coolness which redoubles our means and our strength.
Oswald remembered that there were two English vessels in the harbor; the pumps of both were in perfect order; he ran to the Captain's house, and put off with him in a boat, to fetch them. Those who witnessed this exclaimed to him, "Ah, you foreigners do well to leave our unhappy town!"—"We shall soon return," said Oswald. They did not believe him, till he came back, and placed one of the pumps in front of the house nearest to the port, the other before that which blazed in the centre of the street. Count d'Erfeuil exposed his life with gay and careless daring. The English sailors and Lord Nevil's servants came to his aid, for the populace remained motionless, scarcely understanding what these strangers meant to do, and without the slightest faith in their success. The bells rung from all sides; the priests formed processions; weeping females threw themselves before their sculptured saints; but no one thought on the natural powers which God has given man for his own defence. Nevertheless, when they perceived the fortunate effects of Oswald's activity—the flames extinguished, and their homes preserved—rapture succeeded astonishment; they pressed around him, and kissed his hand with such ardent eagerness, that he was obliged by feigned displeasure to drive them from him, lest they should impede the rapid succession of necessary orders for saving the town. Every one ranked himself beneath Oswald's command; for, in trivial as in great events, where danger is, firmness will find its rightful station; and while men strongly fear, they cease to feel jealousy. Amid the general tumult, Nevil now distinguished shrieks more horrible than aught he had previously heard, as if from the other extremity of the town. He inquired their source; and was told that they proceeded from the Jews' quarter. The officer of police was accustomed to close its gates every evening; the fire gained on it, and the occupants could not escape. Oswald shuddered at the thought, and bade them instantly open the barriers; but the women, who heard him, flung themselves at his feet, exclaiming, "Oh, our good angel! you must be aware that it is certainly on their account we have endured this visitation; it is they who bring us ill fortune; and if you set them free, all the water of the ocean will never quench these flames." They entreated him to let the Jews be burnt with as much persuasive eloquence as if they had been petitioning for an act of mercy. Not that they were by nature cruel, but that their superstitious fancies were forcibly struck by a great disaster. Oswald with difficulty contained his indignation at hearing a prayer so revolting. He sent four English sailors, with hatchets, to cut down the gate which confined these helpless men, who instantly spread themselves about the town, rushing to their merchandise, through the flames, with that greediness of wealth, which impresses us so painfully, when it drives men to brave even death; as if human beings, in the present state of society, had nothing to do with the simple gift of life. There was now but one house, at the upper part of the town, where the fire mocked all efforts to subdue it. So little interest had been shown in this abode, that the sailors, believing it vacant, had carried their pumps towards the port. Oswald himself, stunned by the calls for aid around him, had almost disregarded it. The conflagration had not been early communicated to this place, but it had made great progress there. He demanded so earnestly what the dwelling was, that at last a man informed him—the hospital for maniacs! Overwhelmed by these tidings, he looked in vain for his assistants, or Count d'Erfeuil; as vainly did he call on the inhabitants; they were employed in taking care of their property, and deemed it ridiculous to risk their lives for the sake of men who were all incurably mad. "It will be no one's fault if they die, but a blessing to themselves and families," was the general opinion; but while they expressed it, Oswald strode rapidly towards the building, and even those who blamed involuntarily followed him. On reaching the house, he saw, at the only window not surrounded by flame, the unconscious creatures, looking on, with that heart-rending laughter which proves either an ignorance of all life's sad realities, or such deep-seated despair as disarms death's most frightful aspect of its power. An indefinite chill seized him at this sight. In the severest period of his own distress he had felt as if his reason were deserting him; and, since then, never looked on insanity without the most painful sympathy. He secured a ladder which he found near, placed it against the wall, ascended through the flames, and entered by its window, the room where the unfortunate lunatics were assembled. Their derangement was sufficiently harmless to justify their freedom within doors; only one was chained. Fortunately the floor was not consumed, and Oswald's appearance in the midst of these degraded beings had all the effect of enchantment; at first, they obeyed him without resistance. He bade them descend before him, one after the other, by the ladder, which might in a few seconds be destroyed. The first of them complied in silence, so entirely had Oswald's looks and tones subdued him. Another, heedless of the danger in which the least delay must involve Oswald and himself, was inclined to rebel; the people, alive to all the horrors of the situation, called on Lord Nevil to come down, and leave the senseless wretches to escape as they could; but their deliverer would listen to nothing that could defeat his generous enterprise. Of the six patients found in the hospital, five were already safe. The only one remaining was the youth who had been fettered to the wall. Oswald loosened his irons, and bade him take the same course as his companions; but, on feeling himself at liberty, after two years of bondage, he sprung about the room with frantic delight, which, however, gave place to fury, when Oswald desired him to get out of the window. But finding persuasion fruitless, and seeing that the fatal element was fast extending its ravages, he clasped the struggling maniac in his arms; and, while the smoke prevented his seeing where to step, leaped from the last bars of the ladder, giving the rescued man, who still contended with his benefactor, into the hands of persons whom he charged to guard him carefully.
Oswald, with his locks disordered, and his countenance sweetly, yet proudly animated by the perils he had braved, struck the gazing crowd with an almost fanatical admiration; the women, particularly, expressed themselves in that fanciful language, the universal gift of Italy, which often lends a dignity to the address of her humblest children. They cast themselves on their knees before him, crying—"Assuredly, thou art St. Michael, the patron of Ancona. Show us thy wings, yet do not fly, save to the top of our cathedral, where all may see and pray to thee!"—"My child is ill; oh, cure him!" said one.—"Where," added another, "is my husband, who has been absent so many years? tell me!" Oswald was longing to